


Returns

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Disguise, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wounded man who collapsed in Mrs. Hudson's doorway is not at all what he seems. Post-AGOS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returns

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [hc_bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) square "fever/delirium"

The weak knock would've gone unheard had she not been dusting in the front hallway. A single rap, that was all, and her curiosity got the better of her. She wasn't expecting any deliveries or callers and had no lodgers at present, so by rights she didn't need to open the door. She cautiously did anyway.

Her generosity was met by a disheveled man slumping into the entryway at her feet. He tried to raise himself up but did not succeed and collapsed again to the floor with a groan, all movement abruptly ceasing.

It did not shock her as it might have; she had become used to odd things while Mr. Holmes was under her roof, but that didn't mean she wanted to deal with a drunk that couldn't properly find his way home.

"D'you need some help, mum?" a wide-eyed newspaper boy asked from the pavement, staring at the feet sticking out of her still-open front door.

She beckoned him in and between them they turned the insensate man over and propped him up against the wall, his head lolling. But he didn't smell of alcohol as she'd expected, so she was reluctant to send the lad for a constable as she'd originally intended. She looked him over carefully, half wishing Mr. Holmes was not dead so he could tell her who this man was and what to do with him. At length she spotted the bloodied and dirty bandage tied sloppily around the man's thigh.

"Fetch a doctor, would you, lad?" she asked and the boy hastily departed. She closed the door behind him and watched the man with a frown, her hands on her hips. Only his chest moved, and shallowly at that, so at least she wasn't in any danger.

 

Dr. Watson had just returned home from his morning rounds when there was an insistent pounding on his front door. Heaving a sigh--could he not have a moment to rest without someone needing him?--he turned his steps from their intended path toward his study to the door instead. To his relief, it was only Billy, a lad Holmes had occasionally hired for minor tasks, though he was hopping from one foot to another in agitated excitement.

Watson didn't even need to ask what was the matter before the boy began spilling his story in a breathless torrent of words, from which Watson picked out only a handful, like "Missus Hudson" and "man" and "not moving". It was very little, but enough to tell him he wasn't going to be eating lunch at home.

Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised to see him when she opened the door. "Oh, Doctor, I hope the lad didn't disturb you. I sent him for any doctor."

"It's no trouble, Mrs. Hudson," he assured her, his gaze finding and starting to evaluate his patient even as he stepped through the door.

The man was still sprawled against the wall where he had been placed, his arms lying limply at his sides and his chin on his chest. His clothes had seen better days: ragged, filthy, splattered with all manner of substances, and rather too large for the body within them, probably scavenged from a waste bin or the back of someone who no longer needed them. His hair and hands were as ragged and dirty as his clothes, and his shoes had been patched multiple times. If he'd had a hat, he lost it before he stumbled onto Mrs. Hudson's doorstep. All told, he was the very image of the sort of vagrant that haunted the riverbanks.

And then there was the bullet wound in his thigh. The rag it had been bound with looked like it had been torn from a shirt no cleaner than the rest of him and as a result the wound, too, was filthy and quite obviously infected. It also still contained the bullet, for Watson could find no exit path. He would need to perform a full examination to be sure, but his initial conclusion was that the badly infected gunshot wound was the cause of the man's continued unconsciousness as well as the confusion that had led him to Mrs. Hudson's door.

"I'm surprised he could walk," Watson said finally, breaking the silence that had reigned since his arrival. "Do you have a bed he can borrow until we can find out where he belongs?"

"From the look of him, he doesn't belong anywhere," Mrs. Hudson replied, sounding doubtful. "But if we can get him up the stairs, Mr. Holmes' bedroom is available."

Between them it was an easy task to carry him up the stairs and into Holmes' old room; he was not a tall man, and he was lighter than he ought to be even for his size. As soon as the man had been dropped onto the bed, Watson stared in disbelief around the room. "Everything is still here?"

"Yes, everything. The other Mr. Holmes paid quite handsomely for the rooms to remain undisturbed once the plants and animals were removed."

Watson shook his head ruefully. "I hope this poor fellow doesn't mind criminals watching him while he sleeps."

"He'll have to wake before he can mind."

"Would you be willing to assist me for a while? His leg needs tending as soon as possible."

She agreed and he sent her to fetch towels, hot water, and an empty basin. He set out his instruments and carbolic and plenty of bandages, periodically stopping to check the insensate man's pulse. It was rapid and weaker than he'd like, but at least it was there and consistent.

The man stirred a bit and moaned when Watson jostled his leg in the process of cutting his trouser leg off. Watson stopped and checked his pulse again, then pried open his eyelids--the dark eyes stared at him vacantly. The man's skin felt warmer to the touch than it had downstairs, confirming the need for prompt attention to his injury.

It was only a few minutes' work to prepare once Mrs. Hudson brought him what he'd requested. Then he had her hold the man's shoulders down while he knelt astride the man's lower legs. The swelling was bad enough that he had to enlarge the entry wound with an incision so he could part the flesh and retrieve the bullet from deep within the muscle tissue. The bullet had entered the side of the thigh at a downward angle toward the bone, so it took some effort and many groans and a good deal of writhing from his patient before he finally extricated the bullet.

Cleaning out the wound was also a challenge. Watson had to rinse it several times with warm water before there was no pus in the fluid that drained back out. When he diluted some carbolic in the water and applied that to the wound and the area around it, the man's breathing grew ragged and he whimpered pitifully.

Finally convinced that he'd done all he could, Watson carefully bandaged the sluggishly bleeding wound and gestured to Mrs. Hudson that it was safe to let go. She removed the rag they'd wedged between the man's teeth so he wouldn't bite his tongue, then said with evident confusion, "Doctor, this man is wearing false teeth."

Dumbfounded, Watson watched as she pulled out a set of teeth where some were crooked, others were blackened, and they gave the man a severe underbite when they were in his mouth. The man's natural teeth were not in bad condition, though he was a frequent pipe smoker from the notches in several of his upper teeth. "Set them on the table, if you would, Mrs. Hudson," Watson directed, trying to make sense of what this meant in terms of their guest's identity.

Mrs. Hudson gathered up the numerous bloodied towels from the bed and left the room. Watson sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his patient. Without the false teeth the man's face looked even thinner, his cheeks gaunt beneath at least a week's worth of stubble, and his eyes were shadowed and sunken. Every aspect of his appearance was consistent with that of a vagrant, but the false teeth seemed to indicate he was disguising himself. Why would a vagrant need a disguise?

His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson returning with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches for him. Watson thanked her profusely and she left to tend the pot of broth she'd left on the stove.

Watson remained for over an hour, carefully watching his patient, but the man did not stir or speak. He went in search of Mrs. Hudson, and regretfully explained that he had a few patients he needed to see that afternoon, but he would return by teatime. She sent him on his way with assurances that they would be fine.

In his absence, the man's fever worsened and he mumbled incoherently, sometimes speaking clearly enough that words could be discerned, though not all of them were in English. But despite his evident distress he did not move, possibly too weak to thrash about as many feverish patients did; Mrs. Hudson confided to Watson that this seemed eerie and he privately agreed. It also did not bode well, though he did not like to think ill of a patient.

Watson couldn't give the man a bath to cool him down, not with that wound, but he could cover him with wet cloths, so Mrs. Hudson collected cloths and water while Watson carefully removed the man's tattered clothing. He was just as thin beneath his clothes as Watson expected, though not as wasted; he was still well-muscled despite his leanness. He was also scarred in numerous places, and Watson winced sympathetically when he uncovered a particularly nasty scar near the right shoulder. Another bullet wound, if he had to guess, from within the past two years from the lingering pink color of the scar tissue, and Watson wondered why this man kept getting himself shot.

The cool cloths on his torso and arms seemed to help and the man settled back into silence and sleep. Watson covered him with a sheet and a thin quilt and folded a damp cloth over his forehead to keep him comfortable.

Watson faithfully attended the man for days, hoping he would manage to recover from the infection, though the man's continuing delirium and incoherence worried him deeply. When the man was resting quietly, Watson worked on cleaning him up bit by bit, carefully washing each limb and gingerly shifting him onto his side for access to his back.

He saved the man's face for last since it had already been partially cleaned by the cloths they placed his brow or patted over his cheeks. To Watson's surprise, his careful rubbing with the cloth revealed the man's nose was also false, for one edge was loose and began to peel off when he rubbed over it. He gingerly pulled it off and laid it beside the teeth on the bedside table, then cleaned the remaining traces of spirit gum from the man's cheeks and nose.

Watson was debating whether to try shaving the man when he had a sudden inspiration that his hair might not be real either. Holmes had often used wigs in disguises, so it was entirely possible this chap did, too.

He used both hands to feel around the hairline, looking for the edge that had to be there, must be there. He'd just found a gap between the man's nape and the wig when the man opened his eyes and stared right at him in a rare moment of what seemed at first glance like lucidity.

The single word the man uttered struck him like a blow.

"Watson."

His fingers moved of their own volition and tugged the wig up and off, revealing a tight cap which he also removed without thinking about it. The hair he uncovered was wet with sweat and pressed flat against the man's skull and Watson absently ran his fingers through it.

He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was Holmes.

Holmes.

_Holmes._

Watson could hardly breathe.

His mind filled with questions and he stared helplessly at the placid face of the man he thought dead. The man who might yet be dead if he couldn't shake the fever that still gripped him.

All his careful tending seemed too little now that he knew the true identity of his patient, even though he knew he had truly done--and was doing--everything he could.

Holmes' eyes had closed again while Watson was in shock, and Watson realized he still cradled Holmes' head in his hands. He released him gingerly, then stumbled the short distance to the chair beside the bed and sat in it heavily.

Surely he must be dreaming; Holmes could not possibly be the man lying before him and yet that was the conclusion his mind insisted upon. He might have guessed as soon as he saw the man's back and realized the shoulder scar wasn't the result of being shot.

A gasp from the doorway and the rattle of dishes on a tray as Mrs. Hudson recognized the patient confirmed that Holmes really was lying on his own bed, unrecognized for a full week. "Doctor, is that really--?"

"Yes," Watson confirmed. "It's really him."

 

Holmes' recovery remained uncertain for another full week. Then, at long last, the swelling and redness in his leg began to recede and the fever followed suit, slowly abating and leaving Holmes limp and so very weak.

Though he had periods where he opened his eyes and seemed to look at and respond to Watson, Holmes didn't wake properly until he'd been under Watson's care for nearly three weeks.

Watson felt Holmes' eyes upon him as he finished re-bandaging the healing wound, so he glanced up and met Holmes' gaze when he was done.

"Watson?" Holmes rasped, reaching toward him with a trembling hand.

Watson caught the seeking hand and held it in both of his own. "Yes, Holmes, it's me."

"I thought you were a figment--a hallucination--"

"I thought the same of you when I realized who you were," Watson said wryly. He yearned to demand answers to his questions, particularly 'what happened?', but Holmes' attention was no longer on him.

His eyes were darting about the room wildly and he was murmuring to himself as he clutched Watson's arm with his other hand and tried to pull himself up. Watson made out the words "shouldn't be here" and "must go" and "work to be done" even as Holmes seemingly impossibly sat up and tried to push the sheets from his body.

Watson caught his shoulders gently and interrupted the monologue. "Holmes," he said commandingly, and Holmes fell silent, staring at him with something like confusion. "Holmes, you must lie down. You have been very ill."

"I must catch him!" Holmes said urgently. "I almost had him, he tried to kill me--shot at me. Nearly missed," he added, sounding pleased with himself.

"Who?"

"Moran!"

"Holmes, he's dead," Watson said slowly, remembering his shock at seeing the article in the paper.

"Dead?" Holmes repeated dumbly, shifting his eyes downward as if endeavoring to find that tidbit of information in his disordered mental files. "When? How?"

"The article was in the paper the same morning you showed up on Mrs. Hudson's doorstep." Even as he said it, Watson was struck by the seeming coincidence. "They claimed it was a heart attack."

"But you thought that unlikely." Holmes sounded hopeful.

"Knowing how he worked, yes, I was suspicious. But he was dead regardless of how it happened, so I didn't concern myself." Watson took advantage of Holmes' distraction and began pushing him to lie back on the pillows.

Holmes struggled to stay sitting up. "What did I have with me when I was found?" he asked urgently.

"The clothes on your back, nothing more. You weren't even wearing a hat."

Holmes sighed and surrendered to Watson's urging, slumping back down upon the bed. "I succeeded, I must have . . . why don't I remember?" he mumbled.

Watson didn't acknowledge his words, instead pouring a glass of water and holding it to Holmes' lips until he drank it. By the time he finished, he was obviously struggling to stay awake and Watson patted his shoulder. "Sleep, Holmes. We can figure out what happened later."

Holmes grumbled wordlessly and soon stilled, his breaths deep and even. Watson smoothed the covers over him, then went in search of the clothes Holmes had been wearing. He had a feeling there were answers in those rags.

Mrs. Hudson had wanted to burn them, but Watson thought they might have some value, so they ended up in a sack in the bathing room where their smell wouldn't seep into any of the upholstery.

Watson spread them out on the tiled floor and carefully began going through them. It didn't take long for him to find the blowgun darts in the trouser pocket; he cautiously pulled them out, mindful not to touch the tips. Holmes' words and the darts came together in his mind and he was suddenly quite certain he knew what happened.

Holmes, having been shot by Moran, decided to use the man's methods against him and prepared poisoned darts, carrying them in his pocket and disguising the blowgun as a rough-hewn cane. He followed Moran, waiting patiently for the right moment despite the worsening infection in his injured leg. That moment came one evening, and Holmes succeeded in stinging his prey.

The dart was dislodged either by Moran collapsing or by his body being transported, so the police never suspected the true cause of death. Holmes, meanwhile, was nearly out of his head from the fever and, instead of returning to wherever he'd been holed up, his feet took him the familiar route back to his old rooms. The distance from where Moran had been found to Baker Street was substantial, particularly considering the severity of Holmes' condition, and Watson was impressed he made it so far before reaching the end of his strength.

What brought Holmes to London and what he had been doing before that, Watson couldn't even guess, but that part of the story would have to wait until Holmes was more recovered.

Watson put the clothes back into the sack--knowing Holmes, he'd want to see them, possibly even use them again--but took the darts to Holmes' bedroom and put them on the bedside table with the nose and teeth and wig: a complete collection.

 

Following Holmes' return to awareness, his sleep was restless and often disturbed. The slightest sounds--a step on a floorboard, the creak of Watson's chair, a carriage rattling past the house--could rouse him instantly to wakefulness and he would bolt up in bed, disoriented and near panic until he remembered his surroundings and situation. When Watson asked him what was the matter, he insisted he was quite all right. Watson wasn't convinced, but hoped a little time would cure him of this ill.

It didn't.

Watson finally attempted to intervene when the circles beneath Holmes' eyes grew worse rather than better despite Holmes resting in bed all day, and the healing in his leg was not progressing as it ought. Holmes adamantly refused his offers of a sedative, so Watson suggested putting cotton in his ears to block out the noises.

This helped a little for a short while, but all too soon Holmes was waking because he didn't hear the noises his mind expected to hear. Watson didn't understand this objection until he remembered that Holmes had been hunting Moran, a pursuit that would have required all of Holmes' senses to be on the alert at all times lest he be discovered and hunted in turn.

Holmes would not speak--though Watson did ask--of what else he had endured while faking his death, so Watson generally avoided the subject. But one day when Holmes had not slept a full night in over a week and he was visibly exhausted, Watson asked, "What do you have left to do now that Moran is dead? Was there anyone else to pursue?"

Holmes eyed him warily, but answered frankly. "He was the last. I had already taken care of the rest."

"What were your plans when you got him? Were you ever going to tell me you still lived?"

"Of course," Holmes said indignantly even as he looked away guiltily.

"Assuming you survived Moran, that is. You weren't certain you would," Watson said slowly, knowing he was right by the way Holmes fidgeted with the bedclothes. "No wonder your nerves are in pieces."

"Overcoming Moriarty in the end was the result of a fortuitous location and his failure to grasp my determination to bring about his demise even at the cost of my own life. Moran was a wholly different sort of animal and I was restricted in my efforts to snare him."

"How did you survive that fall?"

"I nearly didn't."

Watson waited for him to elaborate but he didn't. "Your brother knew you were alive," he said finally.

"He is, in part, the reason I still live," Holmes admitted, glancing at Watson.

"He said as much after I sent him a telegram about you showing up here. I should be angry with you both, but I'd rather see you back on your feet first. After that, I'll punch you."

"I suppose that is no more than I deserve," Holmes said wearily, closing his eyes briefly then opening them again with evident difficulty.

"Why don't you try to sleep?" Watson suggested.

"I cannot," Holmes said immediately.

"Why won't you allow me to help? You must sleep sometime if you are ever going to recover."

"Keep your sedatives to yourself," Holmes said hotly.

They glared at one another until Mrs. Hudson brought in a tea tray. Holmes sullenly accepted the cup Watson handed him and wrinkled his nose after the first sip, evidently disliking the herbal tea Watson had requested. Watson watched him for a moment, then asked, "How would you have told me you were alive if this hadn't happened?"

Holmes smirked. "There were several possibilities," he said, then went on to describe them, all somehow involving him in disguise and abruptly revealing himself to Watson. He spoke rapidly at first, but then his words slowed as his eyes began to close despite his efforts to keep them open.

"Or I could have used my chair disguise . . . I was in your study when you received that parcel, you know." His eyes shut and he went silent long enough that Watson thought he might be asleep.

"I'm sorry about Mary," he said, suddenly returning from wherever he had drifted.

"You knew?"

"Mycroft notified me. I might have come--in disguise, of course--but I could not interrupt my work at the time."

"I see." Watson was surprised that he would bring it up, but was touched that he had.

Holmes went quiet again, but then he burst out with, "You drugged my tea."

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Then Nanny drugged it, duplicitous woman."

"She did not. If she had, I would be similarly affected."

Holmes grumbled to himself about testing the dregs in his cup, his voice trailing off as he finally sank into sleep.

Watson sat with him for several hours, through the afternoon and well into the evening. Holmes did not stir in that time, so Watson retired to his old bedroom for some much-needed rest of his own.

Holmes didn't show signs of waking until well after breakfast. When he was apparent he would soon rouse, Watson went down to alert Mrs. Hudson that she should bring up Holmes' breakfast shortly.

By the time Watson returned to Holmes' room, Holmes was not only awake, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor, and leaning forward in preparation to stand. Watson hurried into the room as Holmes pushed himself up onto his feet. Holmes' face paled and he swayed, shifting his weight off his injured leg and in danger of losing his balance in the process.

Watson quickly grasped his shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed. "You need to take it more slowly, Holmes. I can help you, if you'll only let me."

Holmes resisted and tried to push past Watson, but Watson stood firm until he'd discovered the reason for Holmes' attempt to rise. It was easily addressed by use of the chamber pot, though Holmes curled his lip in distaste.

That done, Watson briefly checked on Holmes' wound. There was no real change from the day before, which Holmes noted and commented upon--he had developed a keen interest in observing as Watson tended the injury.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with Holmes' breakfast tray just as Watson was tying the bandage around Holmes' thigh. Holmes eyed the plate warily. "Unlike yesterday's tea, I expect to find my food unadulterated," he said.

"If I had intended to poison you, I would have done it some time ago," Mrs. Hudson retorted as she swept from the room.

"She didn't do anything to your tea," Watson insisted. From the bedside table he picked up a teacup covered with a napkin and showed it to Holmes. "I even kept your cup so you can test the dregs if you wish."

Holmes waved it away. "Testing would be useless. Too much time has elapsed. Where is the paper?"

Watson had to retrieve it from the sitting room where he'd left it after reading it over his own breakfast. He held it out to Holmes, who was busily eating.

Holmes gestured for him to keep it and, after swallowing, he said, "Read."

Watson heaved a sigh and settled in the chair beside the bed. He read the paper while Holmes ate, which was to say he would start reading an article and Holmes would interrupt to say, "Next," if the article didn't interest him. At some points he read only the headline before Holmes had him move on to something else.

Holmes had finished eating by the time Watson's reading reached the agony columns, so Holmes took the paper and read those himself, sipping his tea as his eyes moved quickly over the page. After a few minutes he folded the paper and left it atop his empty plate.

Watson watched with amusement as Holmes set the tray aside and began throwing back the bedclothes. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I wish to stand again. You don't have to stay if you don't wish to help." Holmes carefully turned and sat on the edge of the bed, his feet dangling above the floor.

"Unless you want to see your breakfast again momentarily, I would suggest you wait a while before attempting anything," Watson said.

Holmes huffed an impatient sigh. "Just how long is a while?"

"An hour."

Holmes frowned and crossed his arms across his chest. "Fine. One hour."

"Would you like yesterday evening's paper?" Watson asked, rising from his chair.

"Yes." At Watson's pointed look, Holmes rolled his eyes and added, "Please."

Watson was in the hallway when he remembered he'd forgotten something. "And don't you dare try to get up while I'm gone," he called, returning to the doorway. Holmes had stopped halfway to standing and quickly sat back down when he saw Watson. "Feet on the bed," Watson insisted, not budging until Holmes had returned to his earlier position reclining against his pillows. "I will drug you if you try that again," he warned as he resumed his errand to the sitting room.

Holmes was still where he should be when Watson returned, though he wasn't happy about it. He said nothing as he took the paper Watson proffered, and they settled in silence to read.

Watson watched Holmes over the top of his book, amused that Holmes spent far more time than was usual poring over the paper and still had over a half hour to wait when he'd finished. Holmes threw the paper to the floor with a huff, then crossed his arms and stared at Watson.

"Stare all you like, you're still waiting the full hour," Watson said.

He half expected Holmes to start talking about something, anything, just to disturb him from his own reading. Instead, Holmes remained quiet, plucking at the bedclothes absently as he shifted his gaze from Watson to something else in the room.

Most unexpectedly, Holmes' silence lasted even as the waiting period concluded. Watson had become absorbed in his book so he didn't mind, but when he finally finished the chapter he found it had been five minutes longer than the prescribed hour. He was surprised until he took a good look at Holmes: he'd fallen asleep again. Watson grinned and started the next chapter in his book.

Watson finished several short chapters and was in the middle of a longer one when Holmes abruptly sat up, mumbling as he rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. It was but a moment before he started moving, shifting his legs over the edge of the bed.

"No need to rush, Holmes," Watson admonished, rising and taking Holmes' elbows in support as Holmes stood.

"Don't worry, old boy, I'm quite all right."

"Old boy." Watson snorted. "It's you that's going grey."

"At least my hair remains upon my head. It appears your forehead gained new territory in my absence."

Watson blinked as the barb hit its mark--he was quite aware his hairline was slowly receding, thank you very much--then decided to let it go. "Right," he said, eyeing Holmes' stance critically. "You'll have to put weight on your leg in order to walk, you know."

Holmes shifted his weight and slid one foot forward.

"No, don't try to walk yet. You need to get standing right first."

"I can stand just fine," Holmes returned.

"Can you?" Watson asked, glancing at Holmes' hands tightly gripping his forearms.

In the end, he couldn't, not yet. He tried repeatedly throughout the days that followed.

By the time a week passed, he was able to shuffle, slowly and painfully, across the room and up and down the hall, preferring to clutch Watson's arm rather than use a cane. They would settle in their respective chairs in the sitting room under the pretense of allowing Holmes a change in scenery before the trip back to his bedroom.

One afternoon when they were taking a breather in the sitting room, Watson was silent in thought and Holmes watched him, his empty pipe alternately in his mouth or in his hands. He broke into Watson's thoughts, saying, "You would find it easier to keep me under observation without continuing to neglect your other patients if you moved back here."

Watson looked at him sharply. "Would you stop doing that?" he said testily. "Just because you can guess what I'm thinking doesn't mean you should bother me with it."

"I'm not guessing," Holmes said, sounding wounded. "You're quite easy to read."

"Yes, so you've said," Watson said irritably. What bothered him most was that Holmes exactly right about the trend of his thoughts, particularly the feeling that he was neglecting his paying patients in his care for Holmes. Weighing his options had already consumed several hours when he should have been sleeping. "So you think I should move back in."

"I think it's the most obvious solution to your present dilemma. There are alternate solutions, of course, but this one would allow you the most rest."

"Dare I ask why you care about the amount of rest I get?"

Holmes looked wary. "You tend to become . . . fractious with insufficient rest."

Watson rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. "And this solution has nothing to do with keeping you entertained, I'm sure."

"Not in the least," Holmes said a little too quickly.

"You could start taking cases again."

"Not until I am sufficiently fit to be out and about."

"And when you're healed? Why should I be here then? You promised you wouldn't ask me to help with your cases anymore."

"I will not ask, but should you choose to come along I would . . . not mind." Holmes fidgeted with his pipe as he said this, his eyes looking everywhere but at Watson.

Watson wondered briefly what else Holmes considered saying and recognized the underlying acknowledgement that Holmes had missed him. So he gave the answer he had intended to give all along. "All right, if you insist. Though I may lose some patients that won't want to put up with you again."

"That's no real loss," Holmes said dismissively.

Watson could tell he was pleased. And for that matter, so was he. "I'm still going to punch you for letting me think you were dead."

"Surely you don't intend to assault a feverish patient."

"You haven't been feverish in at least a fortnight."

"I think I feel a chill coming on," Holmes said, barely hiding a grin.

"Then I'm afraid you'll need to return to bed and stay there for at least two days," Watson said solemnly, hoping his mustache concealed his near-smile.

"Oh! I seem to be cured. How remarkable."

"You really are too much, Holmes," Watson said, finally allowing himself to chuckle.

Holmes grinned and Watson grinned in return. It was so very good to have him back.


End file.
